


Distraction

by fandumbandflummery



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rise of Empire Era - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Boredom, M/M, NSFW behavior, fun on the SSD Executor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-25 02:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10755126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandumbandflummery/pseuds/fandumbandflummery
Summary: The general makes an attractive image, this Piett will not deny. But he has work to do, and play can wait for at least another half-hour or so.





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt meme, but now officially dedicated to the incomparable Eisenschrott, who is the almighty god of all things Imperial.

“I know you don’t actually want to read that bumf,” Max drawls. 

“Besides, you’re off-duty for the next forty-eight hours. Wouldn’t you rather be doing something else?”

Piett snorts from his seat at the desk, opposite to the couch where Veers fairly sprawls.

“Unfortunately, being Death Squadron’s longest-lived admiral is not exactly a job that has a defined end-and-start schedule. Onerous as it is, someone’s got to clear out my inbox - I can’t receive anything new until its emptied, and I’ve left this long enough as is,” he continues, absentmindedly marking thirty-plus old notifications about long-since-accomplished engine repairs and shuttle arrivals, and hitting “delete”. He looks up again and sees the general still there, swirling the remnants of a drink in a tall glass, and looking expectantly at Piett. His gloves and cap were doffed long ago, perching on the far arm of the sofa. A more recent development is the open state of his jacket, and the first few buttons of his uniform shirt are undone as well.

The general makes an attractive image, this Piett will not deny. But he has work to do, and play can wait for at least another half-hour or so. He tries not to notice how the big ground-pounder’s throat moves as he swallows another mouthful, and tries to change the subject instead.

“Don’t you have some of your wild young snow troopers to rough up?”

“They’re all down planet-side getting pissed.”

“And what’s stopping you from joining them instead of bothering me?”

“They’re all bloody light-weights. I don’t fancy holding back their hair while they chuck into the gutters - I’ll let Keldau and Esterhaz deal with that. Or would you rather I say, ‘Your charming personality and dear little face, Fir’ ,” Max says, sweetly enough to make Piett’s teeth ache and his eyes roll.

“Firmus, at least have a drink while you’re here - I didn’t bring this bottle of Werda Ice-White to drink all by myself, you know,” Veers waves a hand towards the low table he’s currently propping his boots on, to the tall frosted-glass bottle and the unused tumblr next to them. 

“Answering messages from Moff Juno intoxicated - now there’s a scenario that would turn out just *wonderfully*,” Piett replies dryly. “Come to think of it, it’d probably summon the old lech all the way from Taris to goad you into that threesome he’s been gunning for ever since the grad ceremony on Carida.”

Max gives an over-theatrical shudder at the memory.

“Ack, don’t make me think of the old sack with his kit off and his tackle out!”

Finally bored of waiting - and wanting to get the image of the lecherous old Moff out of his head - Veers gets up and leans sideways over Piett at the desk, gently pushing the data pad down, forcing the admiral to look up at him instead.

“C'mon, why don’t you put that pad down for a while and give me a read-over instead, eh?”

“Max, come on, don’t do this now,” Piett tries to yank the pad back and tries to scoot backwards in his chair, out of the general’s ridiculously long reach. Veers takes advantage of the moment, and shifts his position so that he’s sitting fully on the desk, with the admiral essentially sitting between his spread legs.

“Quit foolin’ around and get yer arse off my desk, Max,” Piett says, low and dangerous, glaring up at Veers from under his brows. The effect is surprisingly intimidating, in spite of the man’s size and seated pose, but it’s still not enough to dissuade Veers. Maybe it’s the alcohol making him braver and making him disregard Piett’s annoyance - or just the fact that he knows he’s ‘won’ the moment the Coruscanti glaze in Piett’s voice cracks to the coarse Axxilan brogue beneath.

“Okay,” and he drops into the admiral’s lap, making the smaller man nearly drop the data pad with a grunt.

“Ack, ya weigh as much as a bantha,” Piett winces as Max settles onto his lap, legs like Kashykk tree trunks bracketing his hips.

“Is that *all* you find bantha-like about me?” he purrs, rolling his hips downwards against Piett’s own and kissing him, and the admiral can’t suppress either his full-body shudder or his accent any longer.

“Y’re so full o’ shite, Max,” he murmurs against his mouth. Veers just grins, and gets down to work.

The next few moments pass by in a haze, as Piett is snogged within an inch of his life, the general’s massive hands coming up to cup his face, the other working at the fastenings of his uniform coat. Dimly he registers dropping the data pad and instead reaching upwards and tangling his hands in Veers’ ashy blond hair. They’re too engrossed in the task at hand to hear the telltale creak of chair’s feet scooting unbalanced on the hard floor, when suddenly the chair is shooting out from beneath them and Piett hits the floor arse-first with a hard thump - made all the harder by the two hundred extra pounds of general on top of him.

“Firmus! Shit, I’m sorry, are you alright?” Max rolls off of him in a panicked scramble.

“I’m alright, Max, it’s okay,” Piett pants, despite the pain - without a doubt, his tailbone’s going to be bruised in a most suspicious manner tomorrow. Mentally, he thanks the thief-gods of Axxila that admiralty have private 'freshers, or he’d be getting some rather lewd queries from his fellow sailors.

“Well, I suppose that’s the end of answering messages for this evening,” the admiral sighs, retrieving the fractured forgotten datapad from a spot by his head, looking at it mournfully before letting it clatter back to the deck plate. He turns his head to where Max is laying now, propped on one elbow and looking hopeful, still.

“And I suppose we’re a bit too old for a rough shag on the floor.”

“Bed, Firmus?”

Piett nods.

“Bed, Maximilian.”


End file.
